


Kandake

by HerenorThereNearnorFar



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Family History, Gen, Royalty, Too Much Research Into Africa Which Mostly Ended Up Being Used As Names, Traditions, Wakanda, initiation rites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-04-21 20:48:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14293149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerenorThereNearnorFar/pseuds/HerenorThereNearnorFar
Summary: Ramonda helps Nakia prepare for queendom, in a very Wakandan way. There are traditions for Black Panthers, and there are traditions for those who marry them, and they both get pretty wild.Alternate Title: Bachlorette Party In A Graveyard, Talking About Your Dead Ancestors, Getting Wild, and Fighting Your Goddess.





	1. Katabasis

**Author's Note:**

> So, I LOVED Black Panther, as I perused this very site I realized there was a serious dearth of Nakia and Ramonda centered content. And in a movie based off of a continent as rich in culture as this one, there is all sort of potential for bridal shenanigans- not to mention oral histories, personal family rites, and ancestrally oriented traditions. They're royalty. That basically come with a book full of old practices to be followed and long histories to remember. 
> 
> I also wanted to make this story very much about a more female society. While the consorts of Wakanda are not solely female simply because it IS a more equal society than most of humanity has managed (I realized partway through writing that logically Wakanda would have had some ruling queens and associated kings, as well as ruling gay couples, and that anything else would be disingenuous), the history I based it on is very female-centric, and I wanted to elevate women's voices for this story.

****  
  


Ramonda had adored Nakia like a daughter from the moment she had first met her. For a while, she had thought Nakia might be the closest to a daughter she would ever have. Shuri had come later, her little gift from the goddesses, but Nakia still held a special place in her heart. 

She had suspected, even from the start, that it might come to this. T’Challa was hesitant with his affections and had few friends in his youth. Steely-eyed Nakia of the River people was one of the few who he put his faith in. She knew her son, and she knew what Wakanda demanded of it’s leaders. Eventually, a king had to marry. 

Of course, as his mother, it would be her responsibility to make arrangements if he needed help, so she kept a running list of other candidates. There were a few initiates who had washed out of the Dora Milaje but still had the loyalty required of a soldier. There was a lesser daughter of the Mining Tribe a few years older than him who he would probably get along with, if it came down to it. An idealistic Merchant artist, W’Kabi’s cousin’s brother, one of Shuri’s teachers who was trusted by the family. 

Nakia had always been her first choice. It was T’Challa’s life, of course, and T’Challa’s hand to give away in marriage as he so wished, but a mother could have _ preferences _ . 

Now, with the date scheduled and the wedding preparations underway, anxiety was taking hold. Not because she did not love Nakia- quite the opposite. It was because she loved Nakia too much, and she worried about what she had to do. 

Still, she needed to give her some warning. 

  
  
  
  


Two months before the wedding was set to take place, Ramonda took a boat down to the River Tribe, and found her way to Nakia’s family compound. The girls had come back from America from Oakland for the weekend, and Nakia’s family had asked for help picking appropriate bride gifts. She sympathized with their plight. It was nearly impossible to make a good show compared to the royal family, impossible to pick objects that would stand out against a palace full of history. 

(Her own family had given up and just sent a bark cloth tapestry. The late King Azzuri, probably without ill intent, had sent back a box of diamonds seized from smugglers on the border, a hundred cattle, and a lion skin older than she was. It was easy to be overwhelmed when you married into royalty.)

Runebi greeted her with open arms and guided her to a room full to treasures that Nakia and her relatives were sorting through. Crocodile skins and delicate shells beaded into thick ropes were draped over every available seat, forcing them onto the floor. The River Tribe was not the richest, but what they had they were plentiful in, and this family in particular had enough wealth to accumulate. 

Maaza gave Ramonda a wicked smile. “You see what your boy has done to us, your grace? Years I told Nakia to marry him, and now I wish they’d never gotten engaged.” 

Privately, Nakia looked like she agreed.

“It’s all beautiful,” Ramonda said, dutifully. 

“It’s not enough,” young Nabala said as she moved to check a stack across the room, her lip plate weighing down her movements, giving the tilt of her head a gravity and decorum. “What can you give to a king?”

“We’ll find something,” she assured her, “You have so many beautiful things.”

They settled, eventually, on a set of wooden statues in by a popular, modern artist and an old wooden oar scored deep with carved lines. Wealth wasn’t as important as showing your roots, your heritage and your devotion to the match. (Wealth did help, however.)

When the talk had finally settled down, Ramonda made her move. 

“Nakia,” she said, “I wanted to talk to you, before the planning for the wedding gets out of hand. There are certain… rituals, I need to walk you through shortly before the first ceremonies. They must be completed before anyone can wed a Black Panther. I thought the week before the wedding?”

Quiet fell. No one had heard of such a thing- and though a tribe was entitled to its secrets the Wakandan grape vine was run by aunties and almost omnipotent. Maaza looked hesitant on her daughter’s behalf, and even Nakia’s uncle, the tribe’s spokesman, seemed to have misgivings. 

“We have our own rituals, you understand. She is still of our blood.”

“Of course,” Ramonda said gently. “But you know the royal family. It’s all pomp and circumstance. It is our job. Certain traditions need to be respected.”

The implication- that the Golden Clan was just strange and that there was nothing that could be done about it- made everyone relax. They’d all sung their way through a coronation or two or three. It was Wakanda at it’s finest, but goodness could it be overwrought. 

Nakia finally spoke up, “Of course I’ll be there, my queen. Anything for Wakanda.”

Well, that settled it, Ramonda thought with a sinking heart. Even her family knew Nakia could rarely be dissuaded from a course of action once she had decided on it. She had gone to school in America for a year, over her family’s protests, had joined the War Dogs, had once helped W’Kabi capture a rogue rhino alone. She was unshakeable. 

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Maaza asked, shaking Ramonda out of her mood. 

“No, I’m sorry, there’s just so much to do at the palace. And I need to make sure my daughter hasn’t smuggled home too many American snacks.”

There were knowing smiles. The Princess Shuri was well known for her occasional antics both on and off social media. America had made her bolder, which Ramonda hadn’t fully realized was possible. 

She and Ayo took their leave. 

It was done. 

  
  
  
  


The night before the first day of the wedding (the first of so many) she tucked Shuri into bed, over Shuri’s protests. 

“Just sleep, please,” Ramonda sighed. “I worry about you when you’re up at all hours of the night.”

“I’m not a child anymore,  _ Mother _ ,” Shuri squirmed. “And I have a new 3D printer the Americans sent us. It’s primitive but there are some interesting components-”

“Shuri, please?” she pleaded. 

Her daughter froze, intelligent eyes fixing on her face. “You’re upset. Mama, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. There are just a few things I need to take care of before tomorrow. There are traditions, when a king gets married.”

Shuri rolled her eyes, instantly dismissive. “Someone has to do it, I guess.”

As Ramonda left she could already see her messaging a friend, which meant all hopes for an early bedtime were hopeless. At least she was in her room. At least she was safe. 

She had raised warriors, of course, but sometimes a mother was allowed to worry. Sometimes she put Wakanda aside and thought with her heart. 

  
  
  
  


Nakia was waiting outside of her guest suite, dressed in full battle gear with her ring blades slung over her back. “You did not tell me what I was supposed to wear,” she said, and underneath her usual polish, Ramonda thought she sounded nervous. 

As she stood, Ramonda thought she smelled T’Challa’s cologne, woody muhuhu and sharp resins. Her family had not arrived from the River District yet. Of course he would want to comfort her before this trial. 

Okoye laughed. “You chose well.”

“Is she coming with us, my queen?” Nakia asked, falling into step behind Ramonda.

“None of that, please,” she chided. “Soon you will be a queen as well. But yes, Okoye will accompany us. The Dora have always played a special role in protecting and guiding members of the royal family.”

She could feel Nakia’s eyes on her, appraising the path they walked down the quiet halls of the royal compound, taking in every detail. Even on the eve of queendom, she was a War Dog to her core. 

Okoye held a torch- fireless and sleek- lighting the way as Ramonda led them down into the public spaces, the Hall of Kings and the wings full of relics that are open to the public during the day, the offices where the quiet bureaucracy of royalty occurs. 

“Through the gardens,” she warned, more for Nakia’s sake than anything. Okoye already knew where they were going. 

Nakia stopped walking. “The burial grounds?” she asked. 

It was one of the oldest parts of the palace, as old as Wakanda itself. Along with the temple of the heart shaped herb, the mines, and the ancient houses of the four tribes, the burial grounds of the Black Panthers had survived for millenia. It was not unchanged, of course, all things changed with time. But it was sacred. 

Even Nakia, as nosy as she had been as a child, had given it its due respect. T’Challa, always conscientious, hadn’t been able to go within ten yards of the place without saying a prayer to his ancestors. 

“Something like that,” Ramonda said. 

They walked through the garden, into the deep recesses where the teak and eucalyptus trees grew so tall that it almost seemed like part of the jungle had moved into the city. Past a certain point, even the happy noise and light of Birnin Zana seemed to fade. 

The Necropolis was sprawling but not grandiose compared to the city that had grown tall around it. Perhaps once, though, long ago, it had been splendid. The heavy pots, burnished in gold and enamel, that marked each monarch’s grave were as tall as a man and three times as wide around. Looming over the pots were crypts of mud, brick, and metal, still no bigger than a closet or a small hut. The rich colors painted on them seemed grey and desaturated in the dim light. Vibranium gilt flashed in Okoye’s torchlight. 

The crypt Ramonda stopped at was not especially presupposing. Its decorations were more subdued than its neighbors, its capped peak did not reach as high. Even the lintel of the long barred, dusty door was low. 

She listened closely for the sound of Nakia’s hesitation, and was rewarded with a confused sigh. Then, she reached down and turned off the hologram projector in the doorway. 

The image of the door disappeared, leaving only a dark maw, inviting them in. Before Nakia could step forward, Ramonda threw out an arm to stop her. 

“Your kimoyo beads,” she said. “Give them to Okoye, please?”

Without hesitation, Nakia handed them over. She knew how ceremonies worked. You did not question the demands made of you, not until you knew the game. 

Ramonda gave her a fleeting smile. “Before you go in, are you certain you wish to do this? Weddings have been called off for less. T’Challa would not hold it against you, and neither would the people.”

Nakia held her head high. “You have brought me this far. And I will admit, I’m curious.”

“I think you are supposed to say that you love my son too much to imagine leaving him, my dear,” Ramonda said, with a rare laugh. “But that will do. Come with me then, and see those who came before us.”

She led Nakia into the dark, where the ground gave way to stairs, steep and hewn from uneven stone. They stayed clumped together, almost touching, she and Nakia and Okoye, so the little pool of light from the torch does not leave them, and by that torchlight the carvings on the wall start to appear. Shiny metal, silver with a hint of the blue of raw power, showing the deepest cuts. 

Vibranium, just unstable enough to glow faintly. 

At first, all there are is shapes, triangles and squares and delicate lines, creating a mosaic of geometry. The deeper they went the more the vibranium glows, and by the time they’d reached the bottom of the stairs it suffused everything with a faint glow- almost enough to see by. 

Okoye handed the torch to Ramonda, their hands touching briefly. It was as close to a reassurance as Okoye was wont to give, and she appreciated it dearly. It meant,  _ You can get through this, I know you can _ . 

Coming from Okoye, who had walked five women through a hallway much like this one, it was not an empty comfort. 

Ramonda moved with queenly grace to one wall, where the sacred geometry gave way to pictographs, people, spears, and an ever familiar panther. Still drinking everything in, Nakia trailed her and knelt to examine the carvings more closely. 

“The first king of Wakanda was Bashenga,” Ramonda said, startling her, “But before he was a king, he was a man with a wife, Sakhmakh. Her mother was Maatkare who was a priestess of a goddess Bast in Kerma and the town of Ter. His wife’s goddess helped him find the path to peace between the tribes. Without her, there would be no Wakanda.”

“I have never heard of her,” Nakia replied, mild but still doubting. “I recall many queens, but not her.”   
  
“Aluel, his second wife is more famous,” Ramonda acknowledged. “It was her son who became the next Black Panther.”

So much of Wakanda’s long history was told in stories, passed down from generation to generation. Some were too sacred to even write down. It had taken Ramonda years of searching to find an old songsinger who verified what her predecessor had told her, who reaffirmed a secret thousands of years old, passed from royal spouse to royal spouse. 

Nakia traced the lines, almost touching the stone but not quite. Sakhmakh’s hair fanned out from her face in the pictures, twists unfurling like a lion’s mane. Aluel held a shield out, protectively. Nakia absorbed it, dark eyes intent. Then she looked up, and gave a silent nod. 

There were fifty more kings after Bashenga, and Ramonda found herself falling into a comfortable pattern, the words she had been so worried about remembering falling easily off her tongue. There was she who first cultivated the heart shaped herb, and she who protected the tribes from raiders with a spear in hand, and she who drank the blood of her enemies and nursed a panther back from death. Every now and then, Nakia would squint with recognition. She had always minded her history. 

When they came to Queen Consort Wanjeri, Okoye gave a delighted little sigh at the sight of the Dora Milaje’s spears- familiar even in a picture three thousand years old. 

“Yangi was the first ruling queen of Wakanda,” Ramonda said, “And because some members of the tribe were not sure about a woman taking the heart shaped herb, she married one of her guards, the earliest members of the Dora Milaje to pacify them.”

Nakia frowned. “I thought it was just because she was a lesbian.”

“There were probably multiple factors,” Ramonda said swiftly, “But I am telling you this story as the queen once told it to me.” Shuri would have fought back- and probably won since there was no denying the recent historical evidence that the queens had been terribly in love. Nakia just rolled her eyes, and drew a little closer, staying in the circle of light. 

“Wanjeri protected her wife with her life, if necessary, and asked others, her sisters in arms, to do the same. She was absolutely loyal.” Slyly, Ramonda glanced at Okoye, who jumped in. 

“Since then the Dora have changed. We no longer serve the king, we serve our nation. But Wanjeri’s intentions were true. She knew what she fought for.”

It was a challenge, and Nakia, always an idealist, took it. 

“I know what I fight for.”

The curve of Okoye’s lips in the blue light was as sharp as Nakia’s blades. 

“ _ Good _ .”

There were twenty more Black Panthers after Yangi, a long line of relatively unremarkable queens and kings and their relatively unremarkable spouses. Ramonda named the names quickly, and did not linger over their accomplishments. Okin, the first male consort, did receive a moment’s pause, but little more. Nakia smiled fondly at Queen Dahya the Proud- a favorite of hers when she had been young, Ramonda remembered, but continued on silently. 

Then they were at the gate. It was little more than a groove in the stone walls, a space where the vibranium laced carvings looped together and then stopped short, leaving a few feet of darkness before the images started back up again. 

Nakia’s brow furrowed. “Is this supposed to represent the first great war?” she asked. Oh, she always did have a mind for history- not just Wakandan but African. The First War, when Wakandans had been forced to fight off their neighbours, and then Wakandan had turned against Wakandan, tearing the tribes apart- that was exactly the sort of thing she would remember. 

“There were three consorts crowned then,” Ramonda said. “But none of them were ever initiated here. In fact, this place was nearly forgotten. In the chaos, the old ways were nearly lost. Only the Dora Milaje kept the tradition alive, and when the next queen was crowned-”

“Taru,” Nakia said, absently. 

Okoye suppressed a laugh, and her eyes met Ramonda’s over Nakia’s head. _Who was giving the speech here?_ They both seemed to be thinking. 

“Indeed. The Dora Milaje were the ones who took Taru and taught her these rites again. It was after this that Wakanda became isolated- first by the mountains and then by technology. We had seen the danger of war. We had nearly lost everything. Now when I was young, the queen before me asked if I would protect Wakanda’s sovereignty. That cat is out of the bag, as they say, so all I will ask is if you will protect her traditions. When the time comes, will you pass this rite on to the one who comes after you? If you cannot make it that far, will you do everything in your power to make sure the Dora Milaje can counsel and protect the next royal spouse.”

“I will,” Nakia said, but the solemnity of the oath was undercut by the impression of roteness, the sense that she was saying it out of duty and not determination. Ramonda knew what Nakia looked like with fire in her eyes, and this was not quite it. 

So she pushed. “Do you swear it? For Wakanda?”

“Yes, of course!” There was the anger, the flash of flame that had saved her and her daughter when death was at their door. There was what they needed, what she would need to get through this. 

Ramonda nodded. “Good. Then put your weapons down.”

Nakia hesitated. “You would have me face this unarmed?”

“Would you if I asked?”

At that, she took offense. “Yes, you are my queen! But I am allowed to ask questions.”

“My sweet child, no one has ever had the power to stop you, try though we did. Now, I am glad we could not. No, you will not go in unarmed, but you do need to leave _ your _ weapons here.” 

She hoped Nakia could take the hint. Blessedly, she seemed to pick up on the implication, swung her ring blades off her back, and dropped them on the ground with a clatter. 

“Wonderful,” Ramonda said, trying to ignore Okoye rolling her eyes behind Nakia’s head. “Now, shall we move on?”

It only took a few steps to cross the darkness, and reach the next era. It was, overall, a peaceful one. It was also interminably long. Wakanda had survived since the dawn of civilization, hundreds of generations longer than any other dynasty or nation. Few people had longer memories, or more crowded history books. 

There were almost two hundred Black Panthers in the peaceful time after the first war, men and women who had led the people to build up their walls, cultivate their natural protections, and foster a reputation for peace and poverty that could make most adversaries underestimate them. A few had still tried- there were isolated raids and attacks, but they had made off with little. Aside from the loss of a few Vibranium weapons and the occasional outsider quietly taken in, Wakanda had lost and gained little in those years. 

It had been marriages that had made that diplomacy strong, that had solidified the ties between the clans until they were unbreakable and forged Wakanda’s hard won tranquility. Out of respect for the men and women of the clan she had married in to, Ramonda tried to remember as many names as she could. There were just _ so many _ . 

Okoye helped. 

“This was Wemusa? No, this was Wemusa. First Ebla, then Wemusa, then…”

“Ojore,” Okoye said helpfully. Of course she remembered, he looked to be of her clan. “King Ojore.”

“Yes. Then Biye, then three daughters of the Border clan in a row, then five queens and a king whose names are not even in the books.” She gave Nakia a significant look, “You see how easy it is for history to forget you. This is not a job for those seeking glory.”

“I am a spy,” Nakia shrugged, “No one goes into that field for the recognition.”

“It is much the same with queenship. It is not a job that is kind to its holder. You do not wear the crown, the crown wears you.”   


“And this is the lesson?” she asked.    


“One of many. I am afraid there are more to come.” 

They made it through Dayo rhino tamer and Zawadi the proud, before Ramonda ran out of names to give and resigned the rest of the queens to silent mystery. It was, in a way, a blessing. If you were forgotten, chances were your time was peaceful. At time, one prayed to live in an era that would be forgotten completely, but Ramonda had realized when she saw her nephew’s shark toothed smile that she was not meant to live in uninteresting times. 

Ahead, there was another patch of darkness- an internal chaos set off by unrest within Wakanda, the ever closer threat of growing empires. This one was even longer, almost three yards before the gentle glow of vibranium returned. Wakanda was chosen by the goddess, but that did not make it perfect. If anything, it had given them even more to lose. 

“You know what happened here?” she asked. 

Nakia bobbed her head. It was a Western habit, but Wakanda as a whole had picked it up years ago from imported television shows, and now young people like Shuri did not even remember a world where those little gestures were not a part of their language. Even T’Chaka, in his later years, had picked it up, and Ramonda had never quite been able to stop herself. 

“Good. Then I do not need to explain what division within our nation can cost us. Three of the challengers to the throne from this period came from your tribe, two from mine,” she’d had to look that up in the royal archives, “And while a challenge is not always a bad thing, it is if it drives us further apart.”

She looked Nakia over. She had not worn much jewelry- instead coming prepared for battle- but she still had on a necklace with a smooth river stone set in it. A small marker of her heritage, in an otherwise entirely pragmatic outfit. Even undercover, she usually wore it. 

“Take off your necklace,” she said, “and promise me that you will never let your family keep you from making the right choice.”

“Never,” Nakia said, already casting it aside with only a hint of hesitation. Once you were this far, Ramonda remembered, you were willing to do anything. 

Still, she worried Nakia was not doing it for the right reasons. The point of the questions, of the hall of dead queens and kings, was to remind the betrothed of their responsibilities to the throne. Nakia’s ethos had never been focused on the Golden Clan, or even Wakanda. She made the choices she made because she thought they were right, utterly and earnestly. She acted out of compassion and love for others, not duty. 

Ramonda feared that- however admirable it was- it would not be good enough. Not for what was ahead. 

She could only do so much, however. Nakia and Okoye were eager to move forward, neither of them seemed to share her concerns. And there was only so much longer she could drag the recitation of history out. 

Sooner or later, they were going to reach the end of the hallway.

  
  
  
  


Within minutes, they had passed another millenia of Wakandan life and were at the third gate, the third great war. Nakia pulled off her boots almost before Ramonda could ask her too and forswore her personal claim to the throne so long as she and T'Challa's remained alive and married. The rhythm of rituals became familiar once you understood the foundation they stood upon. 

The next few centuries of Wakandan history went all too quickly. There was Lawin, history keeper, and Kassa, first to fly, and Thema, who had designed the oldest extant portion of Birnin Zana. There was Wasswa, father of twenty, five of whose children had been Black Panthers in their time. There was M’Barika of the Border who had defended them as colonizers had come to their very doorstep. And then they were practically within the reach of recent memory. Ramonda could recite every royal now, their deeds had shaped the city as they knew it, the world she had grown up in.

N’Bushe had been beautiful and strong, her mother the daughter of a refugee from what would become Kenya- just a few decades before the force fields came up and cut Wakanda off completely. Senwe and Serwa had been siblings, both married to the same man, one of the last kings of Wakanda to practice polygamy simply because keeping the royal family small was one of the best ways to keep the kingdom stable. (A small number of potential challengers to the throne was healthy, encouraged even, but too many just asked for trouble. Two, three children, that was ideal, and even that invited dangerous factions further down the line. Her husband's brother's son proved that.)

Okoye pointed out a few relevant to her calling- those who strengthened the Dora Milaje or were members in their youth, or those whose daughters joined the Dora and achieved power. Twakoseka, three generations before Ramonda, had been one of the Dora before marrying the queen and then had rejoined after her death, when her brother-in-law came to the throne. 

(“ _ You did not ever,” _ Okoye said, “ _ stop serving Wakanda. You simply shifted focus a little. _ ”)

The darkness ahead was getting closer, and Nakia was getting antsy. She knew where history ended. But Ramonda lingered on the final queen in the line. 

Her predecessor had been thoughtful, gracious, and ready to kill for her country. She had given this speech far better than Ramonda ever could have hoped to. She had made sure she knew what she was getting into, without violating the rules, and the words she had said that night years ago still lingered in her mind. 

Nanali had been a great queen. Even carved in stone, she kept some of her regal bearing and warm smile. Nakia watched as Ramonda paused for a moment and paid her respects. There was something about having your successor’s eyes on you that made you all the more aware of your place in the world. 

Ramonda’s place was in the palace, next to her son. It was in the graveyard up above when she joined the ancestors. It was on the wall, just down from Nanali, where bare stone was waiting for her. 

Nakia’s place was impossible to discern. She had always been everyone’s first choice for T’Challa, and she had always been so determined to prove them wrong. Even now, she had only acquiesced to queendom once she had turned Wakanda upside down, bared them to the world and thrown everything into chaos. 

She would get entire armlengths of this wall dedicated to her, if she didn’t kill everyone first. 

Okoye took the torch from Ramonda’s hands and gave her a querying look. Was it time?

_ Yes _ , Ramonda said back, silently. 

The cry of the Dora was piercing, especially in a small space. Okoye sounded it once, and smirked as her sisters melted out of the waiting darkness, stomping their spears. 

Nakia did not jump, but she did lean back somewhat. Even spies could be surprised sometimes. 

“This is the final step,” Ramonda explained, “You have a chance to turn back now, go and never speak of this again. Or you can continue and face what is ahead.”

“I want to continue,” Nakia said, chin stuck out mulishly. “No matter what.”

“Then take off what remains of your clothes,” Ramonda said, “Makeba?”

Makeba came forward, with the heavy robe and big sandals of the initiation in her arms. Nakia stripped, trying to give off the impression that she did this every day, and stepped into the proffered clothes. They weighed heavily on her shoulders and glowed slightly in the dark. 

Ramonda stepped up and gestured to Nakia’s head, “Can I? I know there is not a mirror here, or a hair pick, but it will have to do.”

“Of course,” Nakia said, and stooped so Ramonda would unwind her Wakanda knots. It was an awkward position so Ramonda pulled her down to the floor so they could sit and uncoil each of the dozen little rolls, leaving curls that held almost as tight to her head as the original hair do. It was almost enough to make Ramonda smile. She’d already had her locs when she had gone through, and Queen Nanali had rolled each one individually between her fingers, checking that nothing from outside would go forward, into this sacred place. 

Once she was certain that Nakia was as bare as she had been at birth, she stepped away. 

“Ayo, her weapons.”

They were not the ones Nakia had left on the floor, though at a glance they looked almost identical. Nakia weighed them in her hands, testing the feeling of them, and seemed to find them satisfactory. 

“We’ll want _ those  _ back, before you get any ideas” Okoye warned her, “They’re national treasures.”

Nakia laughed. “What isn’t in this place? My queen, is there anything else I need to do?”

There wasn’t. Ramonda could not keep her any longer. 

“No,” she said, drawing Nakia close for an embrace. “You will walk forward alone. It’s hard to get lost. Just-” she paused, trying to find something she could say, something that was right to say. “Remember who you are, Nakia of the River tribe. Remember what you are here for. Our hearts are with you.”

“You have the hands of a Dora and the heart of a queen,” Okoye said. “This is the same challenge we face when we make our vows- we all survived it. You must as well.” As with so many things Okoye said, there was an underlying implication of ‘ _ or else _ ’.

“Go get em’!” One of the younger Dora whispered, and there were giggles from their number. 

Quickly, Nakia kissed Ramonda, and walked into the dark. Eventually, the vibranium blue of her tunic faded away entirely, and no one could see where she had gone.   
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Anabasis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I intended to have part two up within the week, but I got horribly ill and things stalled a little. But here it is, the final act of this Wakandan Women Appreciation Piece.

The robe was heavy on her shoulders, far heavier than just vibranium would be. Nakia rubbed the hem between the two fingers and tried to figure out what else was woven in. The best bet was gold- gold for the Golden Tribe, gold for the future she had chosen.

It was not a popular metal in Wakanda, not in the modern era when the vibranium mines were deep and productive enough that it adorned every blanket, dress, and wristwatch. Gold was old fashioned. Gold signified the days before, when Birnin Zana was new and Wakanda still traded with far away empires and only hid itself a little.

With every step she took, she travelled further from the people with the answers, but she could not look back. Nakia had done a minor in sociology in college, she knew the importance of small gestures as junctures like this. To look back was to hesitate, and to hesitate was to abandon T’Challa in some small way. Queen Ramonda wouldn’t hold it against her, she was kind, and even Okoye seemed resigned to Nakia bucking the trend, but she had promised herself she would try to be traditional for just this night.

Only when the darkness around her was absolute, lit only by the faint glow of her clothes and weapons, did she stop and give her surroundings a look.

The pitch blackness extended behind her and ahead, but to either side were bare stone walls, smooth but empty, waiting for future queens. The hallway had not changed much in dimensions, though the floor was sloping slightly downwards.

Nakia picked the left wall and clung to it closely, not willing to rely on her own luminescence. Then she forged onwards. Instinct told her there was a way to go still before she reached her destination.

Everything in the Necropolis had been made with the understanding that the monarchy would persist for eons, and the tunnel of queens was no different. Long as the way of the dead had been, the room left for those still yet to die was even longer. Someone, in the ages long past, had anticipated Wakanda lasting until the earth itself crumbled. It was a sort of arrogance that Nakia found herself smiling fondly at. It was not quite conceit, it was… certainty. A faith in their society, in their people, in their ways. Self-serving as it could sometimes be, it was beautiful in a way.

No one had ever successfully convinced Wakanda that they were not eternal, and she hoped fervently that no one ever did.

It was the well-deserved pride that had always made the monarchy tolerable to her, that she had worked so hard to get away from and was now letting herself get sucked back into. It was the grandeur and the power of the ancients, T’Challa’s quiet determination in everything he did, the knowledge that the Black Panther would far outlive him.

This was what ceremonies were for, imbuing everyone with a measure of that same sense of greatness, wrapping them in history and duty until they felt strong.

Sandals flapping, Nakia kept walking, but her mind was far away now.

She remembered her own family ceremonies, the traditions of the River Tribe and the Crocodile totem. They had been more raw than this, larger and longer and more soul crushing. After surviving the trials of the water, this royal challenge was no sweat.

Except… the air in her lungs was getting heavy. Nakia had been in fires before, had nearly choked to death on carbon monoxide in the bottom of a smuggler’s boat, she knew what it felt like when she wasn’t getting quite enough oxygen.The heart rate quickened ever so slightly, the vision blurred. And now the air had a slightly metallic taste, suggesting any number of dangerous gases.

She hesitated. Was she meant to turn back? Was this a test where caution was rewarded? The problem was, it rarely ever worked that way. The point of an initiation was not to reward creative thinking, it was to impress loyalty and core values on you, to make sure you never ran astray. Running was almost never the point.   
  
A few deep breaths later, she made up her mind. The quality of air seemed stable at the moment, she was still getting enough oxygen to function, even if it wasn’t an ideal amount. She would forge ahead. If she started to get faint- then she could fall back. The real danger was blacking out, but she thought she had the discipline to avoid it.

It was possible she had not given this trial of kings and queens quite the credit it deserved. If she was really lucky, she might even end up using her ring blades.

The downward gradient of the hall was growing steeper, and she could feel a slight inward curve to the walls. It was beginning to spiral in, or perhaps had been all along, too subtly to notice. The air was still difficult- thin, she thought, like in the lands of the Jabari. They said the hypoxia made their people strong, and perhaps it did, but Nakia was a lowlands girl, she was not meant to thrive in this atmosphere.

The kids at the Center used the word “hella” sometimes- the adults used it more. It was a catching sort of word. It had a weight to it, a fluidity that was impressive in English. So few English words made sense as extensions of the rest of the language, but this one did. Coming from an agglutinative language like Wakandan, the addition of a few extra syllables to strengthen and shore up felt right, felt natural.

Nakia was hella dizzy at the moment.

She still wasn’t going to turn back, she loved T’Challa and his stupid smile and his soft eyes in the morning too much for that, but it was _vexing_. She had been in sticky situations before, she was a spy, but what she was not in the habit of was feeling weak or trapped. It had been a long time since she’d been in a situation even she could not think of another way out of.

She felt seventeen again, trapped in the initiation house in the dark and the summer heat. She had not been alone then, all her age mates had renounced the River God that year and her cousins had been with her. They’d been taken out of school together, sorted by their mother’s birth clan, hurried into the different low buildings by the river, and left to sort themselves out. Oh, some of the elders came by every day to feed them and make sure they were behaving themselves, and teach them the histories and dances they’d be expected to know for the ceremony, but for the most part it was just them, whispering to each other in that windowless space.

She remembered Borana- who also went to school in the city- and she, quizzing each other on engineering and languages so they would not be too far behind when they returned, hands flashing in quick darts of deeper shadow, the glint of a smile. They had used their kimoyo beads to light up the space with the same, vibranium glow she faced now. She remembered duelling in the center of their temporary home with Dashi, hi-tech staves clanging against one another and lighting up as they collided, trying to predict your opponent in a space where you could barely see while also not hitting anyone else.

When they had finally been let out, it had felt electric, victorious. The sun was so bright and the air was so clean on the outside, and everyone had come to cheer for them as they stepped into the river for the first time as adults. The fact that they still had to say the old chants and tell the River Father that they were grownups now and he could not steal them to his kingdom was almost an afterthought. Never mind the words she was saying, the water was lapping at her feet and it felt so good!

But that, at least, had a point. It was a protection against drowning, a promise that their god who loved every child like his own would not try to steal new fishermen and artists away in freak storms. It brought them into adulthood, forever marked that they were now old enough to hold the traditional positions, to speak up at meetings and make their own way, and no one could challenge them for the whole tribe had seen them come of age. More than that, it was a binding, to the tribe and to each other. No bond was more dear, and few friends could be better relied on than ones who had shared food with you in the lawless world of the dark. Nakia could not marry anyone she had gone through it with, not just because their mothers shared a clan, but because they had shared a rebirth.

This challenge, however, she had to face on her own.

Unbidden, a plea to the god of her childhood rose on her lips. She had been raised with Bast, of course, but where there was a river there had to be a deity of one. Nakia loved him. She did not quite believe in him- not the same way T’Challa believed, the steady faith on one who had travelled to the realm of the ancestors. She had seen too much of the world and its strangeness to put her full faith in anything. One did not have to believe to love. Who cared if there was a palace under the water, full of the laughing souls of children who dove too deep? There was a river and it was beautiful. And there were her people and they were so alive. And she still remembered the magic of that day, ankle deep in the river mud, chanting with dozens of other teenagers, a promise to their parents and themselves. A god was fickle, but her people had not led her astray.

History was complicated, but Ramonda and Okoye could be trusted.

Her mind was definitely getting fuzzy now and she wished she had her beads to make notes, to record certainties in case certainty slipped away. Nevertheless, she did not turn back. She had to trust Ramonda and Okoye. They had never willingly let her down before.

They had mentored her and sheltered her, had cautioned her and comforted her, had given her space to succeed and the tools to pave her own way. They had not pushed, even though she knew Okoye thought she ought to be a Dora and Ramonda thought she had the makings of a great politician. They were not, as a rule, prone to asking for great boons. They would not have asked her of this unless they thought she could handle it.

So she told herself as she moved forward, one slow step at a time.

Then, there was light.

It was distant, just a blue smudge in front of her, glow casting over the ceiling as the hall continued its slow slant downwards. A vibranium phosphorescence, cold as ice, washed over her as she broke into a jog.

A square room opened at the end of the corridor and every wall was bright as the main mine deep underground. Perhaps it was connected to the mine, a wandering vein off of the main lode used to craft a room of the sacred metal itself.

Across the room was another doorway, this one dark. Faintly, Nakia thought she could see stairs through it. The test was to pass through then. Some terrible trap lurked within, or Okoye was waiting to tackle her, but she could handle that. Dizziness has not taken her sense.

She hesitated hands on either side of the doorway. There was always a catch- and raw vibranium in such quantities was not traditionally “stable”. It still held the meteor energy it had gotten from crashing into the earth long years ago, compounded by eons of tectonic forces and geothermal heat.

But it was too late for second guessing, she’d already let them dress her in it. It was too late to avoid whatever horrible quantum effects the scientists periodically theorized about.

Gingerly, she kicked off the sandals (charged vibranium didn’t like hitting other charged vibranium, much in the same way dynamite didn't like fire) and stepped onto the nightlight blue floor. It was slick as glass. White and indigo nebulas seemed to pulse deep inside it.

No poison darts whistled out at her, like in an adventure movie. None of the Dora leaped out to challenge her to a duel.

Nakia took another step, weapons held ready, checking her corners and peripherals as she went.

Still nothing.

By the third step she was more confident, focused on her goal. The path was clear, she just had to get to the door…

A weight landed on her back, knocking her to the ground. Nakia twisted her torso as she fell, so she landed on her side rather than her front, and swung a ring blade over her shoulder to strike at her assailant. If it was one of the Dora she might have hesitated, but this did not feel like a human figure. Thin claws were digging deep into her back and something thin and whippy struck her ankle.

She might have thought it was T’Challa, but T’Challa didn’t have a tail.

There was fur as well, pressing against what parts of her skin were bare as she fought to throw the creature off. Most of her effort went into protecting her neck- if this was a leopard, or worse, a panther, it would try to bite there.

The ground was too slick to fight on, it took forever to find her feet again, but once she was upright she managed to slide one arm under her attacker’s body and fling them away. Deep score marks on her shoulders and hips already burned with pain and the gushing of blood, these were not claws of diplomacy.

Still, first aid could wait. Nakia whirled on her opponent, determined to finally see her foe. She wasn’t sure what she expected- it surely wouldn’t be an actual animal, Wakanda had very strict wildlife protection laws, but it didn’t fight like anyone she knew and although the priests had many secrets they were as a rule too old for these sorts of antics.

She certainly didn’t expect to see a goddess snarling at her.

The lady Bast was ancient and the stories said she took many forms, but Nakia knew her instantly. This was how she had always imagined her, when she read textbooks and listened to the first stories. Half woman, half panther, dark and beautiful, with wise purple eyes. There was a touch of T’Challa to her features, as if T’Challa had another mother, one made of shadows and the rich black earth of Wakanda itself.

Nakia’s people kept their own god, but Bast belonged to everyone. She was adored, revered, featured in every school play and bedtime story. She was keeper of the sacred herbs, mentor to the Black Panthers, whose words were always spoken but who had gone unheard for centuries. A small, secret part of Nakia resisted the urge to bow, while her much larger, rebel conscience held out. She owed nothing to someone who had just tried to rip her to pieces, even if she was the reason Wakanda existed.

“Are you who I am supposed to meet?” Nakia asked steadily, ignoring the ache of her injured flesh.

“Are you the girl who wants to be queen?” Bast asked, staying very still but watching. Her feet moved slightly, as if she was putting herself in position for the next strike. This was a waiting game. Nakia felt like an antelope in front of a lion.

“You could say that.” Nakia’s palms were sweaty and these antique weapons did not have proper leather or wood grips. It was nothing but metal against damp flesh. She readjusted her hold slightly, trying not to blink.

Bast drew herself up like Queen Ramonda, back straight as the crisp lines of stripweave cloth, tall as a mountain and proud as someone on top of one. “You either are or you aren’t, my child. Give me an answer.”

Even in her regal pose, her nails glimmered like knives- oddly metallic. Nakia did not think she wanted to give a wrong answer.

“I want to be queen,” she said, “I have come all this way, haven’t I?”

Upon hearing that, Bast leapt at her again.

There was no good way to strike a god. Nakia had participated in a few speculative planning sessions to ensure Wakanda would be able to defend themselves from whatever Thor was, shortly after the battle of New York, but most of the plans she’d fielded had involved getting under his guard and stabbing him in the back. Full scale battle plans were Okoye and T’Challa’s territory, Nakia’s job was to poison people.

In an absence of ways to sneak out of this one, she settled for an upper blow, under the guard and ribcage, while her other hand fended off those terrible claws. The lighter chakram of India could be twirled to better their close range potential. The technique was not commonly used with the heavier Wakandan equivalent, but Nakia hadn’t spent semesters abroad to not be _showy_. If she was lucky, it might throw an ancient being from time immemorial off her game a little.

No such luck, Bast rolled with the punches, ducking low and lunging to Nakia’s left, giving her access to her open flank. Nakia was forced to back up, holding her weapons out in front of her like two small, circular shield.

“Why do you want to be queen?” Bast asked as she stalked forward. Her pupils reflected the light at certain angles, making her eyes look empty and bright.

The question was odd, but mid-battle quizzes often were. Nakia’s uncle used to shout at her about fishing rights and the minutiae of tradition as she practiced- back when she was young and still settling into her role as his de facto heir. In training as a War Dog, she and her fellow fledgling spies would play a game with njiga throwing knives and languages that was staggering both in its complexity and potential for missing fingers.

In short, she was used to thinking on her feet. Besides, she had been fielding questions from nosy old busybodies for months, ever since she and T’Challa had gotten back together.   
  
She slid on her knees under the goddess’s claws and then bounced back up, back in the center of the room. “We’re finally in a place where we understand each other.” It was the answer for stickybeaks and fussy uncles. On the other hand, Bast was acting like the sort of lady who’d stop you in the market to tell you that you needed to buy more meat because you were getting too thin.

Apparently, however, her excuse didn’t slide with the warrior goddess, protector of the children of the sun, guardian of the spirits of the night. She hissed, an oddly deep, throaty sound, like she was choking and determined to make someone pay for it. It might have been laughable, if Nakia hadn’t spent some time with leopards in her day. The true black panthers of Wakanda were rarely seen, but the leopards of the plains near the city were spoiled and willing to come out to show off for wide eyed school children. Still, they were wild animals and they spooked… all too easily. It was best to keep a force field between field trips and an animal that fast and pointy.

You always knew when they were losing patience because of the noises they made. They were the belly singers of cats. Everything came from somewhere deep inside them, accompanied by more air than any one creature ought to be able to hold inside of it.

Nakia hesitated- a primal fear gripping her, accompanied by a sudden sense of belated religious wonder as she realized for the first time what she was seeing, what she was hearing.

In one swift rush, Bast raked one hand across her arm. The sleeve of the robe, vibranium and heavier earthly metals, caught some of it, but her exposed wrist took at least a few claws of damage. Instantly, blood began to ooze, wine red against Nakia’s dark skin.

Her back was bleeding as well, but it was somehow more real to see it.

It was going to be _impossible_ to explain these injuries to her mother. They would definitely be visible with her wedding outfit.

“Why are you getting married?” Bast asked again.

There was a right answer to this, Nakia knew. There was always a right answer, a proper path to take. She just needed to identify it.

“I love him, and he loves me,” she tried, which wasn’t a lie in the least but wasn’t entirely true either. The horrible growl, like cloth ripping and distant thunder, started up again in the back of Bast’s throat.

“It was the right choice for him,” Nakia said, “He is king, and there must be some marriage or else poor Shuri will be left with the mess and we- we get along. I will be a good queen.” It’s what everyone had told her. No one can argue, she will be a good queen. She’s eminently qualified, by birth, by training, and almost by temperament. And she loved T’Challa, she really does, like she has loved every good thing that has come into her life. He is kind and funny and brave, and for too long she worried they could not keep each other.

Apparently duty wasn’t the right answer either. Bast swiped at her idly, like a house cat playing with string. Dizzy and dismayed, Nakia took a step back.

“I want to do what’s right for my country,” she said, and hated how feeble she sounded, hated how she felt stripped down, her sense of self melting in the blue light.

“For your country,” Bast asked, smiling in a way that got on Nakia’s nerves somehow. It reminded her of N’Jadaka, with his horrible grin and determination to tear everything she had ever worked for to the ground. And how dare he! This was her nation, her Black Panther, her world that she had worked so hard to right in some small way. Opening up Wakanda had been her crusade, for years, and he had come so close to turning it into a bloodbath- a wicked mirror of what it could be.

Righteous fury, at this trial, and these questions, and this goddess daring to stand in her way, boiled up in her throat, filling her lungs with something more reliable than air.

“No! For the world. I can make things better. So maybe I’m not impartial, or perfectly devoted! Maybe I’ll question him, or shape his policy. But that’s my job. I am not a queen, I am a spy who is marrying a king, and I don’t intend to give myself up for him. He will not change who I am or what I do. Because I can make things better. We can make things better.”

Nakia paused to catch her breath, her vision blurring. Bast’s perfectly still form was wavering like disturbed water. “I have seen what we can do for people. There are so many outside of this country who need us and we’re already helping them. Our technology, our experience, our money, is saving lives and giving hope to those who have never been allowed to have it. We’re already changing things. That is why I want to be queen. Because I would be _good_ at it. And yes, because I love him.”

She waited, panting. After a long pause, Bast tackled her to the ground.

The recommendations for raw vibranium did not include wrestling. In fact, it was generally agreed that it was better to not let it impact anything, much less another piece of vibranium. Nakia had been moving lightly, trying not to encourage an energy event, keeping her own body in between the floors and walls whenever necessary. Now, toppling backwards fast, wrists held tightly to her chest by Bast’s sharp hands, ring blades clattering to the floor, she realized how badly things could go in the next second.

They hit the ground. There was a high ring, metallic but oddly shrill, that resonated through her bones more than a noise of its pitch ought to. There was no explosion. Bast rolled off her chest, and Nakia opened her eyes, only to find the small room full of ghosts.

There was no other word for it. They were almost see-through, glowing with a faint blue light. As Nakia stared, several walked right through her, leaving nothing but a faint sensation of static.

There were at least a dozen of them, in the same shapeless, vibranium and gold robes she was wearing. Some wore the tattoos of trainee priests, others had the half shaved heads of Dora Milaje initiates, and a few looked like they were about to be kings and queens.

Nakia watched T’Challa’s grandmother, a graceful woman with a heart shaped face and a short, dark ‘fro, walk across the room cautiously, freeze halfway, and start gesturing to someone Nakia couldn’t see. Around her, other shades fought, argued, or walked away. As they left, more came in- the young would-be royals came in through Nakia’s door and left through the one across the room, while the priests and the Dora came in across the room and left through the door Nakia had entered in. It felt like being in the middle of a train station at nine in the morning, and being invisible.

“Now I’m certain there’s something in the air,” Nakia heard herself whisper.

Sitting next to her on the smooth floor, Bast laughed. She looked more agreeable now that her terms had been met. “Vibranium holds energy. You are smart enough to figure out the rest.”

In all honesty, Nakia wasn’t. Gods and ghosts weren’t her realm, she left that to the experts. Of course she knew some things escaped explanation- there was the heart shaped herb, for one- but she’d always been happy to never have to deal with them.

She glanced at the goddess, who still looked so much like her childhood dreams of her. “And you, are you just energy too?”

“Something like that.”

Nakia touched her wrist, still bleeding, and started to wrap it in the hem of the robe. “You pack a good punch, for energy.” She thought she could see older ghosts coming through as well- a few were wearing face paint in styles that had stopped being used centuries ago. “What is the point of all this? The walk, the air, the attack. Are you trying to harass people?”

“Sometimes I don’t attack,” a slim hand pointed. “Look, there is your friend, Okoye. She just nodded to me and walked through. She did not need much vetting, that girl. But you are more complicated, Nakia. You have a deep mind and a deeper heart. I needed us to be on the same page.”

The holographic vibranium echo of Okoye left, to be replaced with another would-be-member of the Dora Milaje, holding her spear like a beloved doll.   
  
“It seems awfully unfair,” Nakia observed. “T’Challa just had tea with his Baba in the spirit world and we have to go through all this.”

Bast shrugged, “The Black Panther is already my servant. They need guidance more than anything, thus the ancestors. But all others who would serve Wakanda and my emissary, who would protect them and guide them, they need a- ah- background check.”

“I am simply saying, you could have come and smacked your boy Erik upside the head.”

She laughed, “You and your lover did that for me. All happened properly. T’Challa survived and you protected him. I see the look you’re giving me, Nakia. Normally people don’t question the whims of gods, sent from the stars to guide them.”

“Well,” Nakia snapped, “Someone has to. You said you came from the stars. Are you the spirit of the vibranium? I knew this must be connected to the main lode, we’re close enough to the mines for it to be a stray vein.” Vibranium carried energy, absorbed it and held it. The meteor of the ancients had travelled in space for who knew how long before landing, and it held power that remained impossible to explain. A goddess from space, Nakia could almost understand.

“Something like that.” She sounded too much like Queen Ramonda now for comfort, “Nakia, you’ll need to go soon. It’s not safe for anyone to stay in this place, breathing this air, for long, and I’ve already kept you. However I wanted to speak with you first.”

Nakia leaned forward and grabbed her blades, slinging them both on one wrist. “Please, devourer, speak away.”

For once, the goddess picked her words carefully, as if even she was afraid of what she was saying. “You are not a traditional choice for the throne. In other times, I might think you dangerous, but the world is changing quickly. There are powers at play I cannot comprehend or match. Once, this metal,” she patted the floor, “And your people were the most powerful thing on this planet, but that is not the case anymore. There are threats to this place that Wakanda cannot face alone.”

“The Avengers?” Nakia frowned, “They’re chaotic, but they seem to be under control.”

A young Ramonda, translucent and lovely, walked into the room, looked around, and then came to stand next to Nakia. She was still caught in the past, her hair was dark and her mouth was moving with ancient, blurry words, but her presence was heartening. It almost made up for what Bast said next.

“No, no. Things far worse. The universe is much bigger than just your little planet, my dear,” Canine teeth like knives flashed as the lady of light laughed, “I have seen the stars, remember? Consider this a warning, Nakia, daughter of the River Tribe. Your planet will not always be safe. I am counting on you. You are what Wakanda needs, what humanity needs. Keep them safe.”

Then, with one balled fist, she hit the floor, hard, sending a shockwave through the room. Nakia flinched, a lifetime of warnings about being Careful With Vibranium rushing back to her. She just barely managed to keep her eyes open, and watched through half closed lids as the metal bound ghosts flickered and disappeared. Bast was gone too, like a shadow at midday.

The walls and floor were a little dimmer, the whole room diminished somehow. The exit on the other end beckoned. Mindful of the warning about the long term effects of staying too long, Nakia went and fetched her sandals, and fled.

There was another, shorter, dark hallway outside, one that she could almost entirely navigate by the dull glow of the room behind her and the shine of her garments. The stone floor was cool, but clean, slanting upwards.

The air quality slowly started to improve as well, Nakia noticed, as she entered a taller, wider space full with life-size statues of Dora Milaje warriors flanking either side. It was darker here, full of shadows and a little more dust, but she felt like she could finally breathe at last. The Dora watched impassively as she took a rest in the center of the floor, appreciating the feeling of full lungs and a rapidly clearing head.

Back in the real world, dark and safe and comforting, that blue space with her god and the past all smushed together almost seemed like a dream. Perhaps it was meant to be that way. Except… her shoulders still stung, and when she touched her wrist she could feel the drying blood.

Queen Ramonda hadn’t lied about it being weird. Every bit of her concern had been well meant. There was nothing like nearly being murdered by the seminal figure in your nation’s history, to make you rethink a wedding.

There was nothing like an ominous prophecy to make you all the more determined to go through with it.

In that state of mind, Nakia forged onward, through rooms of spears and preparation, until she found herself stepping out from behind an old, sealed door, into a hall she knew well. It was in between the rooms of the Dora Milaje and the royal quarters, in the center of the royal palace. The head priest of the order of the Herb had a room a little way away. How clever, she thought distantly. You send queens in with the dead and out to into the center of the palace, and the others do it the other way around.

Then, she was engulfed by bodies. Ayo got to her first with a joyous hug, but soon Nakia was surrounded by the rest, kissing her hand and congratulating her, delight clear on their faces.

“Nakia,” Ramonda said when she finally managed to extricate herself from the press, Okoye trying to reestablish decorum among her ranks. “You have no idea how glad we are to see you,”

“Down there, she-” Nakia began, only to be quickly silenced.

“Your journey was your own,” Ramonda admonished gently. “I’m afraid we’re not encouraged to talk about it.” She hesitated, worry apparent in her eyes, “You are safe, aren’t you?”

“I few scratches,” Nakia replied, giving her a quick hug, to lessen her concern, “I’d like to get them looked after quickly, but otherwise I’m fine,” _Rattled, but fine._

“Of course, of course. Let’s get you back to your room, someone will bring up a first aid kit, and some food.” Ramonda squeezed her tightly and rested her chin on Nakia’s head for a second, not an easy feat. “I am so proud of you.”

This was the part where she decompressed, and helped the others calm down as well. Nakia knew her role, and she knew how this ritual (how all rituals) went. She smiled.

“I hope someone has my clothes?”

  
  
  
  


The had her wounds stitched and dressed, stripped her of the ceremonial clothes and helped her get back into her familiar battle wear and beads, which she quickly discarded for a loose day dress. Xoliswa brought her a bowl of stew from the kitchen, full of beef and sorghum.

Slowly and with some prodding from Okoye, the Dora Milaje drifted away, leaving Nakia with Ramonda, who was helping her retwist her hair.

There was a knock on Nakia’s door, then Shuri cracked it open. “Are you done with your secret society meeting?” she asked, sounding grouchy.

“We are,” Nakia said, “Come in, Princess Shuri.”

Ramonda’s lip twitched, which meant she appreciated Nakia humouring her baby, while also thinking that baby needed better manners.

Shuri climbed onto Nakia’s guest bed instantly and leaned against her mother. “I tried to follow your beads, but they flickered out in the gardens,” she complained, “We need to fix that dead transmission spot.”

Her mother rapped her lightly on the head. “So you can keep snooping? I don’t think so.”

“You don’t understand, it’s a national security hazard! What if someone goes missing there, or is kidnapped. It’s a huge blind spot in our defenses.” Shuri kept complaining, about satellites and interference from underground vibranium lines, and the potential catastrophe waiting in their backyard, and Nakia slowly relaxed. It was nice for things to be back to normal.

When the argument was over with, and Shuri was playing with some sand from her pockets, she leaned over to whisper in Ramonda’s ear, “I might got see T’Challa. He said I could come by any time,” and the queen’s expression turned to one of recognition, and sympathy.

“Come on Shuri,” she said, quickly “Let’s leave Nakia to rest.” With some effort, and many more goodnights, Ramonda pulled her daughter out of the room. As she left, she wrapped an arm around Nakia’s waist one last time, communicating both comfort and pride.

When she was gone, Nakia snuck down the halls, past the secret passage to the place deep below the earth where the goddess slept, and into T’Challa’s bed.

He was asleep- despite his promises that he’d stay up for her. She didn’t blame him, he’d had a long day, and judging by the book of foreign policy open near his bed, a long evening.

Wakandan nights were warm, and bedding was thin- just a single sheet tonight. She climbed into the low bed next to him, and snuggled under it.

“My love, I adore you,” she whispered, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, “But _man_ , your family can be strange.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some additional notes- I wanted to add keep the lines between the mystic and the scientific specifically vague, which is why so much of the vibranium stuff is... nonsense. Bast needed to show up, however, because she's just too good of a character to pass up, and having her be one part magical metal hallucination and one part real deity seemed like a good compromise. 
> 
> The njiga knives I mentioned are very real and very cool, as are the some of the chakram techniques. Isi-Xhosa is an agglutinative language, which I hope means what I think it means. Nakia alludes to some Infinity War stuff here, but this is also on some level Infinity War non-canonical, so take that as you will.

**Author's Note:**

> I used a lot of influences for names and cultural details, especially with Nakia's family, but the primary ones were the people of the Oromo River valley in Kenya since the River Tribe is explicitly based on the Surma and Mursi. For the more ancient history, I drew a little from Egypt and Kerma, but tried not to get too Egypt-centric. (The name, Kandake, does come from the title of the queens of Meroe though- it's debated if it refers to a ruling queen, a queen consort, or a queen mother, and that mix of roles is something I wanted to capture.) Same thing with the many names- I tried to stick with Nilotic names at first but ran out so it's really a mixed bag.
> 
> Later on a mix of initiation rites/general rites of passage come into play, since I wanted to get into the idea of sort of taking on a new role, and being guided through this traditional passage into that new role, especially with associated themes of community history and taking on the mantle of your predecessors (plus a little bit of that old "journey into the underworld" vibe). While again, it's sort of a mix of influences, the Iria of the Okrika people had a particular impact on some stuff Nakia refers to.


End file.
